Although I was 11, I wasn't allowed out of my yard. Our land covered 14 acres. My mother was a helicopter mom several decades before the term was invented.
My cousin Joanie was visiting. She was a year older whom I thought was very sophisticated. After all, she was from the exotic state of far away New Jersey.
When Joanie suggested we take a walk, no way would I admit I couldn't leave the yard.
My bratty four-year old brother insisted on coming. He carried an iron rod that my grandmother used to poke at burning logs in the fireplace. He called it his snake killer.
Snakes were non-existent as we walked down Van Norden Road. Mostly there were one family homes with pretty yards, but there were also some vacant fields.
We passed the Little Red Farm where Ellen Nelson designed greeting cards. For the first time I smelled that farms with horses and cows do not have the sweet smell of hay that I imagined.
At the end of the street was Sailor Tom's, a restaurant that made great onion rings.
Sailor Tom lived in a boat on a hill over looking the restaurant and gardens. Years later I would want to buy that boat as my home, but my ex was horrified citing resale values. The boat and restaurant are both long gone.
Because we were facing Route28, a fast paced road between the New Hampshire border and Boston, I suggested we head back.
The feeling of freedom, the chance to see things up close was an adventure. I hadn't had to admit to Joanie how liberating it was and why.
Maybe half way home, a Reading Police cruiser pulled up. I can't remember which cop it was, but he told me my mother had a good part of the town searching for us.
Once my mother realized we were not kidnapped or killed, she was angry enough to kill us herself. I was dragged to my bedroom and told to stay there, with the implication is might me forever.
Joanie never understood what was the problem.
As for my brother, I heard him complain we had forced him to go. He claimed to be ready to protect us with his anti-snake rod.
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